


On Christmas Day in the Morning

by Slantedlight (BySlantedlight)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BySlantedlight/pseuds/Slantedlight
Summary: Bodie wakes up on Christmas day.





	

There was no alarm this morning, not on Christmas morning when they weren’t even on stand-by. Instead they woke slowly, heavy with sleep and the warmth of the bed and each other. There was rain against the window, a soft patter that spoke of a day indoors, of doing nothing but eating Doyle’s roast chicken, opening tins of cold lager, and making acerbic comments at the high-pitched chatter that was _The Sound of Music_. Bodie’s world began slipping back to its daytime place, one memory after another, stretching along his veins with his blood, pounding into his heart… 

He stilled suddenly, didn’t move to sling an arm over Doyle as he had meant to, as he normally did. Something…

_…bastard._

And if he thought that Bodie was going to _forget_ about it…

The blankets erupted beside him, bedspread suddenly heavy across his legs and a waft of air cold on his back, so that he turned over to tug them back into place - the place _he_ wanted them to be - and caught Doyle glaring at him. No point giving him the satisfaction… He closed his eyes dismissively, because he couldn’t be bothered with the sight of the man, with any of it.

Not that he could quite… well, not that he could actually remember what the hell they’d fought about last night, but they’d had a few drinks, so he couldn’t be expected to recall the _details_ … He frowned slightly, listening to the sounds of Doyle stomping down the hall to the bathroom, using up all the hot water, no doubt, and…

Something about… It slipped away again. He remembered watching _The Quiet Man_ \- with Val Doonican as the only real alternative, there hadn’t been any fight there… They’d both seen it before though, so they’d talked…

More stomping and slamming of doors as Doyle finished what he was doing and… another slam.

Left.

The bastard had _left_.

Fine. Bodie thumped himself over to lie on his back again, blankets firmly in place, where they belonged. Somewhere in the distance church bells started to ring, ponderous and cheerful at the same time. Bloody Christmas. _And_ he had a headache, he realised – bloody _Doyle_ , making him drink all that… What had they been drinking, anyway? He sniffed, winced.

Must have been whisky, with a head like this, because they were out of brandy… ah.

They’d run out of brandy and the offie on the corner had been shut, but Doyle’s flat was less than a mile from HQ, so… He winced again, memory slipping a bit further in, with nippy little fingers. So they’d liberated the Cow’s Glenfiddich from the cupboard, in the glorious drunk certainty of being able to replace it before Alpha One got back from Edinburgh on… Sunday.

And yet… He remembered Doyle pulling him into the comparative shelter of someone’s front garden, into the shadows of some oak or chestnut or other venerable giant, remembered being kissed, and remembered cold hands and giggles, and… 

So whatever they’d fought about, it had been after that. He turned onto his stomach, tucked his head into the pillow, and closed his eyes determinedly. He didn’t care. It was Christmas sodding morning and he was going to sleep in if it killed him, going to sleep if…

…and then the door was being kicked open, rebounding off the wall, and he was halfway out of bed, heart pounding, before he realised he was awake again.

Bloody Doyle.

Bloody Doyle, hands full carrying a tray with… with toast, and bacon and butter, and his battered old teapot in its cosy, mugs and… a bottle of milk.

Bodie stared at it.

“…all the way down to bloody Patel’s because you won't drink your tea black, so you’d better be awake you lazy bugger, and…”

Bodie let himself sit back down on the bed, listening to Doyle warbling on about the queue at the only corner shop open on a Christmas morning, just around the corner from HQ, and staring at the bottle of milk.

He took the mug he was given, paused a minute, and then reached to put it on the bedside table, to lift the tray off the bed, ignoring Doyle’s _Oy!_ , and risked life, limb, and spilt tea, to lean in and kiss him. When Doyle began kissing him back properly he pulled away again, smiled, and took Doyle’s tea to put beside his own.

“Happy Christmas, Ray,” he said, tugging him back into place - the place _he_ wanted him to be, where he belonged, beside him in bed. And Doyle didn’t argue, and they let the toast get cold.

 

_December 2011_


End file.
